The Ghost and Miss Hallam: A Time Travel Romance (Lavender, Texas Series Book 1)

by Barbara Bartholomew

  She sipped her coffee and nibbled at the fruit with little appetite until she was attracted by the conversation at the other table.

  “Poor boy,” one silver-haired woman told her friends. “It’s so sad that he should just get his freedom and lose his life.”

  “Not a boy,” another woman said. “He’s in his thirties and maybe he was guilty after all and that’s why this terrible accident happened. You know what they say, ‘what goes around comes around.’”

  Lynne almost choked on her bite of melon. This was the worst, the really worst, to still burden Moss with the responsibility for a crime he didn’t commit. She wanted to yell at the woman that she was wrong, that Moss had suffered for years over someone else’s guilt. She had, however, the good sense to keep silent. If she hoped to visit his bedside again, she had no other choice.

  “My Dwayne is the same age,” the first woman insisted gently. “And to me he’s still a boy and I guess her always will be as far as I’m concerned. I still see him as a little guy on his first bike.”

  Murmurs of agreement were heard around her, as the other seniors echoed her sentiment about parent and child.

  Attacked, the woman who had said Moss might be secretly guilty, shook her head. “Doesn’t much matter now, does it? I hear they have gone through some sort of legal process and will have the right to pull the plug on Monday if he still doesn’t show any improvement. What’s the chance he’ll be able to breathe on his own?”

  Silver-hair sighed again. “Poor boy. I guess it will be a merciful release.”

  Shocked beyond reason, Lynne leapt to her feet. In a loud, strained whisper, she protested, “No! No! No!”

  Weeping, she dashed from the cafeteria, hardly conscious that everyone in the room had turned to watch her.

  Barely able to see through her tears, she almost managed to step in front of a moving pickup, halting only when a horn jerked her to awareness as the vehicle pulled to an abrupt stop. Only after the pickup had moved on did she continue toward where her car was parked.

  Much as she wanted to linger in hope of being able to visit Moss’s bedside again, she had to spend her time trying to save him.

  The woman had said they were going to disconnect him from life support next Monday. This was Tuesday. She had less than a week to save him.

  The only way she knew was by trying to find his sister.

  Awakened early by his host, Moss started the fire with the wood he and Benny had gathered on the previous evening and once it was burning, Mama Hurst began to prepare their breakfast.

  Papa Hurst had already pounded the stake into the ground that proclaimed the land theirs, though now he would have to prove up the claim over the years by building a home, planting crops and grazing horses and cows on its grasslands. But with any luck, he would have a good ranch to leave to his grandson when he and his wife passed on.

  Better than could be hoped for back in Kentucky where they had lived before, farming other men’s land and eking out a subsistence living.

  It wasn’t long before they saw the first settlers pass by, not stopping to even exchange greetings in their haste to claim some of the best lands. They looked hungrily at the little party and Moss knew that hunger wasn’t for food, but for the very land they stood on.

  Somehow Moss had become an accepted part of the family as a sort of unpaid hand and he worked alongside Papa Hurst as they secured the little encampment and then began to walk the claim, leaving the rifle in Mama’s capable hands. Benny begged to go with the men, but his grandfather told him he had to stay at the camp to protect the womenfolk, though from the look of his grandmother it was perfectly clear who was protecting the encampment.

  They didn’t stay away long. Papa was uneasy and was only part way across his new claim, when he pulled in his steed and led the way back, obviously uneasy.

  His fears were well based.

  A strange man stood in the camp, the long rifle in his hands while Mama Hurst lay moaning on the ground. Another man was nearby, pulling out the stake that announced the Hurst family claim.

  Claim jumpers! Moss’s heart pounded hard. These dirty, bearded men were as alarming as any of the tough men who had been part of his prison life and the only weapon the family possessed was in the hands of one of them.

  As he rode closer, he saw little Benny’s large eyes and his sister’s horrified face. He continued to hear the moans of the woman on the ground and determined that he would not let the claim jumpers take away the lives and future of the little family.

  He had learned hard ways in the bitterest of environments, a federal prison and he didn’t have to hesitate to think things through. If that had been the case, he would have been dead long ago.

  He saw that rifle raised and pointed at Papa Hurst as he rode up on his horse and instead of slowing or even pausing his horse, he leaned forward and kicked at the gelding’s flanks, yelling to urge it forward, riding right toward the man and the rifle.

  The rifle quickly swung around to aim at him even as he rode furiously forward. Most likely he would not survive this maneuver, but neither would the armed man falling under the hoofs of the horse. He’d leave the rest to Papa Hurst.

  He heard the roar of the rifle and felt the burning impact strike his body. The horse shrilled his alarm, matching the scream of the man under his powerful hoofs.

  “Moss?” Maud Bailey Sandford called in alarm. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  He came to consciousness slowly, the horse’s shrill terror still reverberated in his ears and his chest burned with the most awful pain. Most likely he’d just killed a man but felt little remorse. He was more regretful that the favor had been exchanged. He was, he felt certain, dying and not from the accident he had expected to cause his demise. He’d been shot.

  Fond as he was of the writer Maud Sandford, he could hardly think it fair that this time jumping around thing hadn’t landed him instead in his sweetheart’s arms. They could, at least, have been granted a last goodbye.

  He felt Maud working over him, ripping off his shirt and pouring something that burned over his wound, then swiftly and efficiently applying pressure to stop the bleeding. It was a while before she bandaged the wound and by then he was feeling somewhat less dizzy, though he still hurt like hell.

  “I would like,” he said, “to leave some last words for Lynne.”

  “I’m not real likely to run into her,” Maud said, her voice evidencing a trace of unseemly humor. Surely a man didn’t deserve to be laughed at as he lay dying!

  But in his delirium, he had it all the details figured out. “You keep a journal. In the future she’s reading your journals as research for her mother. You just write my message there.”

  “Gave that up years ago. Quit when Jeanie left.”

  He couldn’t think who Jeanie was. It didn’t matter.

  “You’re working on a book. Put it in the book. Make it part of the plot and when she reads it, she’ll know what it is. Nobody else has to know.”

  “Very ingenious and an interesting experience. We might try it.”

  “Well, hurry then,” he said irritably, “before I die and it’s too late. Anyhow,” to his surprise he was able to prop himself up on one arm, “I thought nobody could kill me when I was traveling around as a spirit.”

  “Rather solid spirit,” she observed, “but I must admit nobody has given me a list of rules for your situation.”

  “Damned inconvenient,” he observed.

  She nodded. “But you’re not dying, Moss. You were just grazed across the chest. The bullet didn’t go in and you will recover.”

  “Oh!” This was something of a letdown. Then he added, “I rode a man down with my horse and no doubt killed him.”

  “He was trying to shoot you at the time?”

  He nodded and discovered it wasn’t wise to make such a movement. His chest burned fiercely. “Actually he was trying to shoot Papa Hurst and only swung the rifle in my direction when he saw me riding towar
d him.”

  “The Hursts,” she said. “They staked the original claim on this land and my parents bought them out.”

  “I was there the day they staked that claim,” he murmured, feeling himself sinking toward oblivion. “Are you sure I’m not dying?” he demanded and then he was back in the little hospital room in the critical care unit and the nurses were exclaiming about the wound on his chest, but he didn’t care to stick around to hear what they said and slipped into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lynne booked her flight reservations by phone, went to a local store to purchase a change of clothes, a carryon bag to pack them in, and such necessities as a toothbrush and shampoo. It took two hours to drive to Oklahoma City so she got to the airport in plenty of time to go through necessary procedures before flight time.

  She waited until she was about to board before texting her dad that she would be gone overnight and not to worry. Then she turned her phone off, took her bag in hand and got in line to get on the airplane. By evening she was checking into a hotel in Santa Barbara.

  This was where Moss and his family had come from. Tomorrow she would set out to trace them, following the path she hoped might lead her to Cynthia Caldecott.

  She only wished she could have told Moss where she was going. What if he went to the ranch house to find only her dad and brother there?

  The hotel she’d chosen was luxurious and her bed comfortable, but she slept poorly and awakened early, anxious to get about her search. Arming herself for the day by having coffee and cereal before she left, she stopped first at a library where she viewed newspaper pages from sixteen years ago, knowing that the story she was looking for would be on the front page, the sensational news of the day.

  She found it easily enough, wincing as she read of the girl’s murder, but when she got to the follow-up story a day later when Moss was arrested, she focused on the photo that showed him in handcuffs between two police officers. He’d been such a good-looking kid and stood tall and proud with no look of the hangdog prisoner. She guessed that at that point he’d been devastated by the death of his friend, but had little idea that anyone could take seriously the notion that he’d actually killed her.

  The story was heartbreaking and she mourned as she followed the accounts through the next months as he went to trial, was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison. The girl’s family had pushed for the death penalty and he was only spared that by the fact of his youth and, she suspected, because of the excellent attorneys his parents had hired to represent him.

  Pictures of his parents, his pretty grief-stricken mother and his stoic father, appeared frequently as they protested their son’s innocence and pled for his release. The eight-year-old Cynthia she saw only once, a thin little girl with a long face dotted with freckles, who looked bewildered as she rode her bike down the street.

  The press called Moss the playboy killer and the fact that he was the son of wealth and privilege had obviously made him the target of resentment. He’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, a bright and talented young man with a promising future, and he’d thrown it all away by killing a girl who had broken off with him. There had been little sympathy for Moss and his family in their hometown.

  She had lunch in the picturesque city, than drove to the coast to view what had been the Caldecott family home.

  Mansion was more like it, she thought, staring from the point in the road where she’d pulled over. Built in Mexican territorial style, it was a spreading tile-roofed dwelling with extensive and glorious grounds and a view of the jagged, dramatic coast.

  Lord help, Moss had gone from this lifestyle to a federal prison in Kansas. It was a marvel he hadn’t lost his mind. She wished she could go through the rooms, tiptoe through the grounds where he had walked as a child, perhaps catch a glimpse of the ghosts of beloved parents lost to the empty years. She smiled at the thought. Perhaps Moss and his dad had fought their way through his adolescence, that was normal enough. They had been cheated of the years to follow that might have seen them come to greater understanding and acknowledged attachment.

  She got out of her car and, fully aware that something like her abrupt ejection from the hospital might be awaiting her, strolled toward the wide front gate. No doubt the house had been sold years ago and whoever lived there now would call the police if she tried to enter.

  This was the kind of community where privacy was enforced and she had no acceptable reason for intruding.

  A child of about six or seven was playing just inside the gate. She gazed at Lynne with bright blue eyes, pushing long fair hair back from her face a little nervously. “I’ve run away,” she said.

  She wasn’t a pretty child, though she would probably grow up to be a beautiful woman. Now she was just endearing with a missing front tooth and more than a sprinkling of freckles covering what was undeniably a dirty face. Her jeans and shirt were none too clean either. Lynne wondered that she would talk to a woman passing on the street. Children were so carefully cautioned these days not to talk to strangers.

  Certainly this girl was no daughter of the big Mexican style mansion. Such a child would not have been allowed to run off by herself like this. She would have been guarded by a crew of servants and family members. This little girl must be the child of one of the servants.

  That made her no less valuable in Lynne’s eyes. She dearly loved children and someday hoped to have several of her own. In the meantime she was an attentive aunt to her sister’s children, spoiling them rotten as Lana complained indulgently. She considered it the parents’ job to discipline children; it was all right for her little sister to indulge them.

  She couldn’t leave this little girl alone in this intimidating neighborhood. She was sure to walk into disaster.

  “Is that your house?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the house that had once been Moss’s home.

  The girl nodded. “My mom and me live there.”

  “Mom works at the big house?”

  Another nod.

  “I guess she’s really busy and won’t miss you one bit if you leave?”

  The girl twisted one foot in the gravel. “Maybe a little,” she decided. “Do you think she’ll cry?”

  “Most likely.”

  The child’s face brightened. “Good! She’ll be sorry she sent me to my room.”

  Little monster. She reminded Lynne of her naughty little nieces. “But, of course, you’ll cry too.”

  “Why?” The girl scowled.

  “Because you’ll miss her and you’ll be hungry and cold with no place to sleep.” The idea of being cold in the middle of a surprisingly warm California winter felt a little unlikely, but she was doing the best she could.

  “That’s okay. I’ll get a job.” The girl started down the road.

  “Where’s your suitcase?” Lynne called after her. “With your pajamas and toothbrush and clean underwear. And you’ll need a snack, of course.”

  The little girl ignored her, running ahead. She walked along the side of the road and Lynne kept a close eye on her to make sure no passing car stopped. If this didn’t take a turn for the better soon, she guessed she’d have to call 911 and report the child as missing. She hated to do that to this independent little girl, but she didn’t have much choice.

  The child kept walking, but her pace began to slow. Lynne sat, braced to run and yell if anyone tried to approach her. Finally she dragged to a stop and turned around. It was a warm day and her small face was flushed rosy. “Do you really think she’ll cry?”

  Lynne nodded. “I would if my little girl ran away.”

  The girl took a couple of steps back toward her, ignoring a car that slowed, then seeming to take in Lynne’s presence, the driver went on.

  “Do you have a little girl?”

  “No, but my sister has two. My nieces. I would boo-hoo all night if they ran away.”

  The child giggled, then ran back to her, allowing Lynne to gather her into her arms. “I
want you to take me home,” she said.

  She took Lynne’s hand and led her through the open gate toward the house. “I’m Betsy,” she said. “What’s your name.”

  “Lynne. I’m Lynne Hallam.”

  She walked with Betsy to the big front door, which the child opened just as a young woman with soft brown hair came in. She ignored the woman to focus on the child. “Why, Betsy, I thought you were napping in your room.”

  Lynne stared at the woman, absolutely stunned. She was like a feminine version of Moss. This must be his sister!

  “Nope,” Betsy informed her mother. “I ran away from home ‘cause of the injustice. I didn’t deserve to be sent to my room.”

  At the same time Lynne was taking in the fact of the young woman’s presence, she was also registering with some amusement the child’s unexpected vocabulary. Injustice indeed!

  She held out her hand. “You must be Cynthia,” she said. “I’m a friend of your brother’s and Betsy brought me with her when she decided not to run away after all.”

  Her extended hand was ignored as the other woman looked from her to her little daughter. Lynne glanced about, absorbing the atmosphere of Moss’s old home. The entry room was spacious around her, decorated with splashes of mystical, colorful Mexican masterpieces. Even the rugs beneath her feet, also splashes of color against cool tile floors, were works of art.

  And this was where Moss had grown up.

  “Moss needs your help,” she said practically, deciding to ignore the less than welcoming look on his sister’s face. “It’s a matter of life and death.”`

  By twilight Moss was back at the ranch house, staring out the kitchen window at the dying of the day. To his utter disappointment, Lynne was not there. His only company was her brother and dad, busy now with putting a meal together. They were making pizza, David rolling out the homemade crust while Zane chopped vegetables.